Follow you into the dark
by barefootgirl221b
Summary: "That's none of your business…" Mycroft is attacked and hurt but refuses to tell who has assaulted him. When Sherlock takes him to 221B Baker Street to let John take care of his injuries, the two of them discover a secret he kept hidden all those years… H/C, angst, drama - Warnings: Mentions of child abuse, cutting, violence, non-con (non-graphic), suicidal tendencies… Oh my!
1. The mask I polish in the evening

A/N: Hi folks, this is my very, very first attempt at fanfiction writing. So I'm sorry if that's all going to be nothing but crap but I hope it's not and I promise I tried my best. This story is inspired by **IAmNotOneOfThem's _"Take the weight off me"_** and **Q.E.D. 221B's _"Both sides now"_**. These stories are both utterly amazing and you should go read them instead of mine if you haven't already done so (perhaps you could come back after finishing… please?)! While waiting impatiently for their continuation, I decided to try it on my own in the meantime, just for my own amusement to start with. Well, to make a long story short, this is obviously plagiarism but I'd prefer to consider it a homage if that's all right with you… ;-)

The rest, you know it already, isn't mine either. It belongs to the geniuses ACD, Steven Moffat and the amazing and beloved Mark Gatiss.

Warnings: See summary! No slash intended, but in fact there is at least a little bit of a growing bromance between our posh British government and the silver fox of Scotland Yard…

Now, there's one last but important thing you must be warned of: In addition to my questionable writing skills, my English is – let me put it like this: improvable… I'm not a native English speaker as you must have noticed by now and I haven't got any experience in writing in English apart from insufficient school lessons ages ago. But I've found a beta reader who supports me not only with her most helpful corrections but also with her encouragement! **Kudos and many thanks to the lovely CCVRG! :-)**

Apologies for my long ramblings, next time I'll make it short, promise! If you still plan on reading the first chapter despite my preceding "hymn of praise", go ahead!

Cheers and allons-y!

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_If there's no one beside you  
When your soul embarks  
Then I'll follow you into the dark_

_- "I will follow you into the dark" by Death Cab for Cutie -_

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1. The mask I polish in the evening, by the morning looks like shit

Mycroft flinched when John touched his shoulder.

Usually he could hide his discomfort at being touched, but this time he hadn't seen it coming when John had approached him after the doctor had cleaned the cut on his left cheek.

John looked at him, rather irritated, but didn't say anything. Instead he thought about the whole incident. Half an hour ago, Sherlock had practically dragged his brother into their flat and asked John to take care of his injuries. Mycroft, who wore only a torn shirt, a slightly ripped waistcoat and dirty trousers instead of his usual elegant three piece suit looked worn out and shaken. A heavy bruise and nasty cut adorned his face, but when the doctor tried to address it, he said instantly, "No need for that, John. It's only a minor injury and I can surely handle it myself. I don't know why my dear brother is making such a fuss about it. It's really not in character, is it?" He smiled reassuringly at John to assure him that everything was okay.

But John was a good enough doctor to see from a distance that the cut had to be stitched up, and had wanted to say so, but Sherlock shot his brother a glare and growled, "It's not that I'm that concerned about your health, brother dearest, but I promised Mummy the next time I would find you hurt and unconscious on the floor, I wouldn't leave you there. Again."

While John looked rather shocked at that comment, Mycroft lowered his eyes and said quietly, "It's not that bad this time."

At this he turned to leave but staggered because of the sudden movement and suddenly blacked out. He fainted right in Sherlock's arms who, despite his harsh behaviour, had observed his brother closely so he could catch him just in time.

"Get him over here on the sofa," John said and helped Sherlock in doing so. "Now bring me my bag and some water, please."

He patted Mycroft's unharmed cheek and the politician winced, before he opened his eyes with something in them that John would have called fear, had he not known better who it was in front of him.

As Mycroft recognised John and understood what must have happened, he said, "My apologies. I didn't want to cause you any trouble." He sat himself up carefully.

"Mycroft, you don't have to apologise. You're hurt and I will take care of you. No need to discuss it."

Mycroft nodded, unexpectedly obedient, and whispered, "Thank you."

Meanwhile, Sherlock had returned with John's bag and the demanded bowl of water. He had overheard the rest of the conversation but didn't make a comment, which John was grateful for. It didn't happen very often that Sherlock simply shut up when he should. In fact, usually he kept silent when John wanted him to speak and didn't stop speaking when John mentally begged for it.

John took care of Mycroft's cut, cleaned and disinfected it, stitched the wound up and applied a patch to it. During the whole process Mycroft didn't move or make a sound, but he stiffened visibly under John's touch. John could sense that the slender man didn't like it, but he didn't object either.

Finally John attempted rolling up the right sleeve of his patient's shirt to measure his blood pressure. He expected that the blood pressure was too low but hopefully not to an alarming degree. But he would never know because he couldn't accomplish his task since his counterpart pulled his arm away as soon as he noticed what John was about to do.

"Don't bother. My blood pressure has always been perfectly all right."

"You just fainted, remember? So let me check it," John insisted.

Mycroft shook his head and the stubborn look in his eyes told John that he wouldn't change his mind. The gesture reminded him greatly of Sherlock.

The bruise on the politician's cheek had turned its colour from only a dark red to a mixture of red, purple, and light blue, and John ordered Sherlock to get some ice to lower the swelling.

When he had left the room, Mycroft allowed himself a moment of relief and rested his head with a sigh on the back of the sofa. John stood behind the sofa, packing his instruments back into his bag.

"What actually did happen?" John asked, finishing his task and laying his hand on Mycroft's shoulder from behind. This unexpected touch made Mycroft flinch. He didn't answer.

John thought about this strange reaction but didn't say anything either. When Sherlock returned, John repeated his question. Sherlock reacted with a scowl in his brother's direction. "That's exactly what my dear brother doesn't want to tell me. In his opinion it's none of my business. I found him lying in the backyard of his estate, bloodied and bruised but he doesn't consider it necessary to explain."

The consulting detective frowned.

"By the way, you should examine him further since he clutched his right side when he woke up before he realised I was there."

Mycroft groaned and shook his head. "It's really nothing, not worth the effort."

"That should be my decision, I think," John replied and sat beside his difficult patient, obviously planning to unbutton his shirt. The moment John had sat down, Mycroft leapt up and backed away from the sofa, stumbling and nearly falling again.

"What's the matter?" John asked, astounded. "I don't want to jump you! I just want to examine you. I'm a doctor, you know, that's my job."

Sherlock smirked but didn't say anything. Ignoring John's comment, Mycroft backed further away, trying to regain his composure but had to lean against the wall, needing the support.

"I'm fine, everything's alright. Thank you for your help, Dr Watson. But I don't need any further assistance."

"Oh, so it's Dr Watson again," John retorted. "Then I should now do my duty as such…"

He shot a glance at Sherlock who understood at once. The consulting detective came up to his brother from the right and so blocked the only escape way to the door while his loyal friend and blogger approached the tall man from the other side. The two were a well-rehearsed team while their opponent was hurt and slightly shaky at the moment. The elder Holmes looked like a deer in headlights and it occurred to John that only some hours ago he could have never imagined seeing the otherwise self-confident and sometimes even intimidating man frightened and insecure like that.

Now Sherlock had reached his brother and grabbed his arms to pull them back trying to hold him tight.

Mycroft struggled against him and shouted, "Leave me alone! I don't want this. You have no right…!"

He kicked his younger brother and gave him a blow with his elbow but it was too late. The army doctor came to his flatmate's aid and together they succeeded in pushing Mycroft back on the sofa and while Sherlock held him tight, John unbuttoned his shirt and opened it to reveal a large, painful looking bruise on Mycroft's right side which stretched up to his chest. It wasn't difficult to diagnose at least two broken ribs that must hurt terribly and the doctor pondered for a moment how his patient could have hidden this injury from him.

But he hadn't much time to think about this when his eyes wandered to the back of the still struggling form under him and Sherlock. He gasped as he saw the real reason why Mycroft had absolutely not wanted them to see the upper part of his body naked.

Exposed before their eyes were an amount of angry looking, deep scars that covered the back of the slender man and continued further on under his trouser waistband.

For one last time Mycroft whispered desperately, "It's none of your business…" and then he accepted his fate and went still.

John, who still couldn't think straight, only said in a hushed voice, "Oh my god…" and then looked up at his friend.

He had never seen the consulting detective look so haunted, his eyes not able to turn away from his brother's back. In his mind obviously an explosion of thoughts, facts, memories, deductions and…could it be…feelings took place.

Sherlock's hand touched one of the deepest scars and made Mycroft jerk away violently. Nonetheless Sherlock let his finger travel along the scar until he reached the waistband. He carefully pulled it down a little bit only to reveal a further mess of severe scars.

John gulped and was the first one to speak in a low, horrified tone, "What the hell is this? What fucking bastard did this to you?"


	2. Then I'll follow you into the dark

A/N: Hey there, dear people, who actually are reading what I've written! Amazing… *grinsbroadly* Thank you so much for your lovely and encouraging reviews! Here's the next chapter, beta'd again by CCVRG, can't thank you enough :-) This one's really short but the next will be longer and up soon. Here we go again!

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2 Then I'll follow you into the dark

The two shocked men looked at each other, John trying to process the information his eyes had just passed on to his brain while Sherlock seemed to be torn between terror, disbelief, anger and… guilt. They both let go of their prisoner, who tried to sit up, wincing because of the pain and strictly avoiding their gazes. His face bore an expression of utter shame and embarrassment. He appeared to be completely calm, if only his gracious hands with their slender fingers – usually surgeon-steady – hadn't been trembling, and his deep grey blue eyes hadn't been giving away too much about his inner turmoil. He put his shirt back on but didn't button it up; at the moment he didn't trust his hands to do the job properly.

Mycroft shook his head slightly and said with a trembling but dignified voice, "I won't speak about it with you. You've seen it against my will, you've intruded in my most personal affairs and I won't give you the satisfaction of telling you about the most humiliating and violating part of my life."

That last bit was directed at Sherlock. Mycroft shot a short glance at him before bowing his head and closing his eyes for a moment. Sherlock, who had met the gaze of his brother, had seen the hurt in his eyes. He looked at him and was sure he had never seen him this vulnerable and distressed before. And yet, his brother was still the noble, dignified man who had built up walls all around himself, and it definitely wouldn't be easy to break them down.

Sherlock himself was rather offended by his brother's opinion about him and his presumable reaction to the story yet untold, but to be honest it wasn't made up out of thin air: it was based upon the experiences Mycroft had had with his younger brother. Sherlock normally never missed an opportunity to hurt him and show him his contempt. But he wouldn't use anything like this for such a purpose! Nothing like this… like what? He still couldn't and didn't want to imagine what or who had caused the old and new injuries. But he had to, for his brother's sake. He had to follow him into the dark…


	3. Until they broke down all his fences

A/N: As promised, here's already the next chappie, voilà! And again my deepest thanks to my beta CCVRG!

What I forgot to say: As you may have noticed, the chapter titles are taken from lyrics of songs I adore - virtual cookies for anyone who guesses the respective songs! ;-)

There are some lyrics hidden in this chapter as well, namely the line "I've still got the scars" from "Not dark yet" by Bob Dylan. A beautiful, melancholic song that I can only recommend.

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3 Until they broke down all his fences

"I remember," the consulting detective said suddenly out of the depressing silence that had filled the room after Mycroft's words.

When John gave him a questioning look, he continued. "I remember the scars. There weren't that many at the time but it was obvious nonetheless. I should have seen it, known it, deduced it. For god's sake!" He had shouted the last part and both Mycroft and John cringed at the loud sound.

"When did you see them?" John asked.

"As a child," Sherlock replied, looking intently at his brother while he spoke. "I was five and Mycroft twelve. I surprised him in the bathroom, he had a towel around his waist but I could see some of the scars on his back. He never took his clothes off in front of anyone and he seemed so embarrassed when I came in. All I saw was the embarrassment and I - as you know me you will assume correctly – went for it. Tried to take the towel away from him, asked if the stripes came from his current weight gain and loss and such. You know, John, I was a pain in the arse, even then."

"Stop it, Sherlock." That came from Mycroft. "You know that you were a sweet little boy. The fact that you hated me and still do is my own fault. We both know that."

There was a pause.

Then Sherlock responded. "I couldn't hate you so much that I would wish for you to have been abused as a child. To be beaten up by the hands of your own father. Our father. To be tormented with blows and kicks by the fists and feet of a person who should take care of you, beaten with a leather belt until your whole back was covered. Mycroft, even your bones were broken."

His tone was flat but both Mycroft and John knew him well enough to hear the fury lying underneath and growing from word to word. At the end of his declaration, it was barely suppressed anymore.

Obviously Sherlock had made the deductions that led to this conclusion not only from his brother's actual pitiful sight in front of them, but especially from his memories he had sifted through for clues in a matter of seconds. For him everything seemed to be perfectly clear all of a sudden, but for John this statement came completely out of the blue.

He looked from one brother to the other, shocked, as Mycroft interrupted with a desperate "Stop it! Stop it, please."

He held his breath.

"I beg you," he added, no, pleaded quietly. Something you seldom see Mycroft Holmes do.

"I can't, Mycroft. I can't stop now. If I stop now I'll lose you forever." It could have sounded theatrical from anyone else, but Sherlock stated it matter-of-factly in his usual emotionless tone.

"But you never wanted me! You never cared for me. Why does it matter now? Why do I matter now? Because it's interesting to find out what really happened? Am I another case for you, Sherlock? Deducing how I was abused, what evidence there was, which quirks that I still can't get rid of? What father did to me, how he caused each scar? I know you can do that, I know perfectly well, but I can't stand it, it hurts too much…it still hurts, after all this time."

Sherlock shook his head.

"I may be cold-hearted, and I admit that I can be rather cruel to you."

That comment drew a sarcastic snort from Mycroft.

"But I wouldn't see you as a case. You're my brother and, believe it or not, I do care for you."

"No. Honestly, I don't believe it. You don't care for me. I know that, I always knew it and I accepted it. I've gotten used to it by now, so just leave it like that."

He lowered his head, still ashamed.

"But now you know everything. I hope you are satisfied now. I wouldn't have thought that it would be so easy to say it aloud," he mumbled. After taking a deep breath, he continued with a hoarse voice and anybody could hear that it wasn't easy to say it aloud at all. "This is the first and last time I speak about this subject. You're right. Father abused me."

Then he whispered barely audible, "And I've still got the scars."

He closed his eyes for a second.

Self-conscious, he began to button up his shirt, his hands still trembling slightly, stood up and moved towards the door. He couldn't look John in the eyes yet and he feared he never would again. With one last glance towards Sherlock, who refused to look back at him, he left.


	4. Bruised and bloody

A/N: Again, thanks to CCVRG for beta'ing, you're the best! And special thanks to Genome for the constant reviews, you're too kind, this update is for you :-)

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4 Bruised and bloody, I'm lying on the ground

John cleared his throat and said, "I can't believe it."

Sherlock didn't react at all. The terrible truth was that he could believe it. He didn't want to, and only some hours ago he couldn't have imagined it either. But by now, after connecting all the dots in his mind, sorting out all the information and most importantly checking all his memories for evidence, he had to say that he could believe it. That he must believe it. And it hurt.

John thought about the conversation between the two brothers and remembered what Sherlock had said in the beginning of it. Out of the blue he asked, "What were you referring to, when you said you promised your mother not to leave Mycroft lying hurt somewhere again?"

"Mummy always rejected him," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

"Eh?" John asked startled.

His friend continued. "Our mother isn't a cruel person as our father is obviously, but she isn't a very emotional woman as you can imagine, knowing both her sons."

John nodded understandingly.

"But since I was three years old she has always been utterly cold towards Mycroft, refused all his efforts to gain her affection, deprived him completely of her love. He always tried to please her, get her attention, but she couldn't forgive him - just like me."

"Forgive him for what?" A confused John interrupted, but was totally ignored by his companion.

"However, when I found him lying on the floor in the shelter beside our house and didn't help him, she was angry with me and scolded me just the same."

"Of course she did! How could you not help him?"

Truly offended, Sherlock retorted, "He hadn't helped me either! Besides, I wasn't aware that he was hurt so severely. He was lying on his front and I couldn't see his face. I thought he only had fainted. He fainted quite often back then." He thought about this for a moment. "In any case, I had to promise Mummy that I wouldn't do that again."

"What do you mean: He hadn't helped you either?"

Ignoring John's question again, Sherlock continued, "I left him there on the floor, unconscious. I thought he surely would regain consciousness immediately. But I was wrong, he was really hurt. Mummy was astonished that he wasn't there for dinner on time. Mycroft was never too late, always the good boy. So I told her that I had seen my lazy brother lying in the shelter sleeping."

"Told you, I was a bugger…" he commented, when he noticed John's horrified look.

"Well, our mother found him still lying there unconscious. She called a doctor and he sent him immediately to the hospital. He had a severe head wound and a broken arm. When he woke up, he told Mummy, he had tried to climb up a ladder to get something from up on a closet and simply had fallen down. She believed him like she always believed all his lies and made-up stories. Mycroft always had injuries and always had explanations for them. He hurt himself again and again. Except now we know that it wasn't him but our lovable father. I always considered my brother to be unnaturally clumsy. It was just the simplest to believe him and not question his words. He wasn't important enough to our mother to investigate further. And I couldn't care less about him at that time. So there was nobody who really cared for him and his problems and who could have found out."

"He was alone," John summed up.

Sherlock nodded slowly and added quietly, "Just like today."

"How did you find him today?"

"You know that I wanted to ask him for information about the giant rat of Sumatra and the government's involvement in this case. When I arrived at his house, the door was open and I saw the footprints of my brother and another man leading around the house. It was apparent that the other person must have dragged Mycroft violently so I followed the track carefully. When I turned the corner I saw him lying on the ground, nobody else was in sight. He was unconscious but woke up when I approached him. I could hear him murmuring 'Don't, please!' and as I told you before, he clutched his hand to his side until he noticed me. It took him a moment to regain his composure but then he shut me out completely. He gave me a fake smile and started to talk to me as if nothing had happened. He didn't want to tell me who did this to him and didn't want my help. But I remembered my promise to Mummy so I decided to bring him here and thanks to his deranged condition I could take him by surprise and drag him to the cab."

"Do you think it was your father again who beat him up today?"

"I'm sure. The footprints in the garden fit perfectly to our father's feet and the size of the bruise in Mycroft's face fits to his hand as well as the angle from which it must have been caused to his height. Furthermore, you've seen the condition he was in, he wouldn't have been that stressed if this only had been a job-related assault or something like that. You know him: normally steady and unflappable. Finally, there's no reason that he wouldn't tell us something about it, or at least give us a hint. But he completely refused to explain anything."

"Okay, sounds convincing to me. We should confront him with that."

"Maybe. I have to think about it. Leave me alone for a while," he dismissed his dialogue partner.

But John objected, "No, no. At first I wanna know what happened when you were three years old! You said that Mycroft didn't help you! What did he do that you and your mother couldn't forgive him?"

Despite John's expectant look, the consulting detective didn't react at first.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

When Mycroft finally arrived outside Baker Street, the pathetic looking man rested for a moment, leaning against the wall for support and trying to calm down. He didn't anticipate the attacker who gave his shoulder a hard shove and he spun about to face him.

His eyes widened and a shocked "Father!" was the only word he could utter before his already swollen cheek got hit by a rough blow.


	5. This life is filled with hurt

Finally, I managed to upload the next part, yay! Many apologies for the long delay! RL caught up with me since I'm jobless again and I was rather busy with appointments, paperwork etc. So I hope you're still out there… :-) Thinking about Lizella's review I realised that she's right, I myself prefer reading longer chapters and therefore I changed the structure of my story to that effect. By the way, thank you for your kind reviews, you're making me so happy! And biggest thanks again to my dear beta CCVRG!

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5 This life is filled with hurt

The furious man slapped him twice, then a merciless fist connected with his jaw and he felt his lip split. In a desperate attempt to protect himself against the following hard blows, Mycroft lifted his arms in front of his face and tried to cower against the wall.

"Fucking bastard! What did you tell your brother about me? You think you can tell him lies and badmouth your own father without getting punished?! You only get what you deserve!" The brute man shouted and punched his son violently in the stomach.

Mycroft panted for air and groaned, "Didn't tell him anything… he figured it out himself… Please don't… I'm sorry, I'm sorry… I'll be good, I promise…"

An outside observer of the situation could have seen that this was an often repeated "game" between these two people: The elder man beating the crap out of the younger, the other blaming himself for it, trying desperately to apologise and pleading him to stop. Even now, years later, Mycroft instantly fell into this usual pattern.

Apart from the poor shape he was in and the element of surprise on the side of his opponent, you could have supposed that the now adult son would be able to defend himself against his father, but he didn't even make an attempt to do so. Obviously he had accepted his part in this play long ago; had obviously long lost any effort to object. He let the punishment happen, enduring the pain almost as if he himself thought he deserved it.

It seemed that a healthy self-esteem had been beaten out of him and he had just gotten used to be treated this way. Apparently, the result had been that he didn't consider himself worthy of better treatment since then.

His father grabbed his right wrist and asked in a dangerously calm tone, "Did you miss your dear father? After all we haven't seen each other for years till our lovely meeting earlier this day!"

Mycroft didn't answer, he knew what was coming and that he couldn't prevent it. He closed his eyes, bracing himself for the inevitable. He bit his lip as his first finger was broken with a jolt, the second followed, and this time he couldn't prevent a hiss of pain.

Suddenly another voice, a voice he knew but couldn't attach to its owner at once, cried, "Hey, stop it! Leave him alone!" The man pulled the attacker away from his mangled victim.

Mycroft opened his eyes to the worried face of Inspector Lestrade, while his father screamed angrily and fought against the police inspector's grip.

"Are you okay?" Lestrade asked with a concerned glance as Mycroft steadied himself against the wall.

"Y-Yes, I'm fine," he answered with a hoarse voice, his appearance betraying his words.

"I'll arrest this man and call my colleagues to fetch him. Do you know him?"

"No, no, please let him go, Inspector. I…I don't want him to be arrested."

"What the hell? Why not? He attacked you brutally! Who is he?"

The shaken man hesitated.

"He's my father," he said in a voice barely audible and full of shame. "Please let him go now."

Lestrade was completely taken aback: so much so he was struck speechless. He loosened his grip and the senior Mr Holmes freed himself and approached his son again. The inspector was alarmed but didn't move yet. When the angry man grabbed hold of Mycroft's chin, the government official shivered visibly under his father's touch.

"Like I said before, you only get what you deserve, my boy! And you won't get away. You'll get your lecture, I promise."

He gave his son a hateful glare and left the scene at a good pace.

The inspector still couldn't completely understand what he had just witnessed, but he had to wait until a later moment to address his confusion.

'First of all, the victims must be supported, then you can start to solve the crime,' he thought. 'It's routine.'

Except the one standing in front of him wasn't actually an ordinary victim. And this wasn't a case, obviously. The man didn't want him to do his duty and he surely wouldn't want him to take care of him, the inspector guessed. He assumed that the politician was every bit as stubborn as his little brother. But that wouldn't stop him from helping.

"Mr Holmes, let me take you upstairs to your brother and Dr Watson."

"No thank you, as I said before, I'm perfectly fine and I will make my way back home now if you don't mind," Mycroft continued, his tone controlled and by now almost as if nothing had happened, only a slight tremble in his voice showing the effects of the incident that had taken place just a minute ago.

"But you look terrible!"

"Well thank you, Inspector, how kind of you!"

Lestrade made an unnerved sound. The police inspector shook his head and replied, "I can't force you to go to Dr Watson, but I won't let you go home alone. Please let me take you home at least."

He pointed at his car standing only a couple of steps away from them.

The slim man nodded. He felt rather dizzy and a little bit nauseous at the moment and had to admit that he was grateful for the offer.

"Thank you, I appreciate it."

Lestrade reached out to take his arm to help him, but Mycroft backed away clearly not wanting to be touched. It was undeniable that the other man was frightened, although he desperately tried to keep his composure of the posh, steadfast politician. With the heavy bluish bruise and the attached patch ('So he has already been hurt before this incident?' Lestrade thought),the arising black eye and split lip, he really did look worse for wear.

"Let me help you," the Detective Inspector insisted.

"No, there's really no need for it. Don't bother!" Mycroft stated, still admitting to nothing.

They went to the car and got in. During the drive neither of the men said a word. Mycroft rested his head against the seat. Lestrade looked at him and noticed that his passenger looked extremely exhausted but seemed not to have the heart to close his eyes in his presence.

"You're safe now. Nothing's gonna happen to you here," he tried to reassure the man.

Mycroft forced himself into a faint smile.

After a moment, he said, "I would like to thank you for helping me, Inspector. You spared me some suffering, I suppose."

"You're welcome. I was just there at the right moment."

He hesitated and looked at the bruised face and the broken fingers of Sherlock's elder brother.

"Well, I must correct myself: the right moment would have been a great deal earlier," he added grimly. "Why did he do that? I mean, that was no ordinary family dispute. He beat the hell out of you and was just breaking your fingers when I interrupted!"

Mycroft inhaled deeply and his voice still trembled slightly when he spoke. "I don't think this is a subject I have to discuss with you, my dear Inspector. I thank you very much, but I would ask you not to interfere in my affairs any further."

The inspector shook his head but remained silent until their arrival at the other man's home. He didn't let Mycroft argue him out of accompanying him into the house. When he saw how pale the battered man still looked, he persuaded him to sit down in an armchair in the nearby living room and went to the kitchen to fetch him a glass of water. When he returned and gave it to the agitated politician, the man's fingers shook so hard that he almost couldn't drink properly.

With a fake smile but not completely able to hide his embarrassment, Mycroft looked at Lestrade and said, "Thanks, Inspector. I don't want to be rude but would you mind leaving me alone now?"

The tightness of his smile gave Lestrade the impression that the man opposite to him was near a true breakdown. He hesitated and knowing that it would be no use he answered nevertheless. "Don't you think you should have a full medical examination? Your injuries should surely be treated by a doctor. I mean, you've got two broken fingers! They won't heal properly if they're not put in splints. Not to speak of your other injuries…"

"I don't believe that's your problem. But I can assure you that I can take care of it by myself. I'll tape the fingers together, that should suffice. Wouldn't be the first time…" he added, wondering why he let this slip out in front of the inspector. He should have known that a policeman wouldn't miss such a confession.

As was expected, Lestrade immediately reacted to it. "Not the first time…? Well, that's very assuring to know... Okay, I see, you're a very stubborn person. I might have guessed knowing your little brother… But I can be very stubborn, too, you know. So, at least let me do it if you don't want me to stay here overnight!"

Mycroft sighed obediently. "Agreed."

Lestrade went to the bathroom and fetched the first aid kit. He began to take care of the other man's broken fingers and taped them together cautiously. Then, he went on to treat his facial wounds, cleaned his bloodied face and brought him an ice pack to cool it. The other man had only slightly shifted and tried to hide his discomfort, but for Lestrade it was obvious that he had endured a very unpleasant treatment.

After that he asked, "What about the rest of your body? I saw him punching you into the stomach from the distance."

The elder Holmes felt like he was having déjà vu. First, being touched in a rather intimate way for the second time this day – being touched always was so awkward for him, sending chills down his spine – and now this question.

He pulled himself together, and decided to make a new strategy – since the last one of denying everything had led to disaster – and answered in the sternest voice he could manage, "My dear inspector, if I show you that it's only a slight bruise you can do nothing about, would you then leave me alone?"

Then, he pulled his shirt up only as far as necessary to reveal the injury on his stomach. In doing so he avoided at all cost to let the shirt ruck up on his back or his right side.

"Okay," the inspector accepted. "Fortunately it's only a slight bruise and there should be no internal injury, I hope. But promise me to cool it as well, and to call a doctor if you should be in heavy pain tonight."

"Promise," the government official answered, both men knowing that it was a lie.

Lestrade left with a worried face, determined to drive back to Baker Street and consult Sherlock and John about the whole affair.

"Thank you, Inspector," he heard from behind him just as he was leaving, and he turned and pulled an approving smile.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

When he was finally alone, the tall man let his façade slip. He exhaled deeply and his eyes welled up with tears. He did his best not to let the tears flow like he had learned in his younger years. Back then, it never did good to cry. There was nobody to comfort him anyway. If his mother caught him crying, she would scold him that he was too old to do so. If it was his brother, he would be laughed at and made fun of. And in the worst case his father would surprise him, and the punishment would start all over again. The rare times when he had allowed himself to crawl into a corner and let the tears fall had ended when he was a little child. Since then, there had been no stress relief for the lonely boy, he had begun to build up walls all around him and shut the whole world out, retreating completely into his shell. He had learned to hide, learned to pretend.

Over the years he had trained how to keep everything inside, how to build a self-confident, strong, eloquent personality, never afraid of anyone or anything, always self-controlled. That's what the people who met him thought about him nowadays. But what they would never realise was that he was a damn good actor too.

He might look fine on the outside, but inside he was dying.

He made a disgusted noise at this thought and said to himself "Oh, how pathetic…"

While thinking about all that, he sat in front of the fireplace, cupping his chin in his unharmed hand and staring absentmindedly into the fire.


End file.
